


Despoiled

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Courting Rituals, Derek's not much better, Fandom Cares, Good Peter Hale, Jackson Whittemore is not a reliable source of information, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Pining, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Peter Hale is objectively gorgeous, and Stiles has been pining after him for years, so when Peter asks him out it's a dream come true.It's only when they've been courting for months and on the brink of getting engaged that Stiles hears the rumors - the story of the omega that Peter proposed to, ruined, and then abandoned.It can't be true.Can it?
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 110
Kudos: 1235
Collections: Fandom Cares





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LunaStories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStories/gifts).



> This is my final Fandom Cares BLM auction fic for Lunastories!  
> Their prompt was " slow burn where Peter is an alpha and he’s courting omega Stiles. And Stiles was going to accept it when he overheard someone talking about how they feel bad for him. That peter had a track record for courting someone up till the point they had sex and then leaving them afterwards. And maybe this is true (or not, up to where you want to take the story) but peter is a werewolf and he had known from the smell and at first sight that stiles was his mate. But karma and his past catches up to him and Stiles cuts him off.  
> He tries to contact stiles but all he has is one text message saying he’s breaking it off and to not try to find him. Peter almost goes insane tearing the town apart trying to find stiles because surely someone must have forced him to leave, they had been in love- the angstier the better with some nice fluffy aftercare"
> 
> This is something like that, but as always, the boys did what they wanted. I hope you like it!

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Stiles’s dad calls out, “You done preening for your date yet, son?”

Stiles scowls at the unruly lock of hair that refuses to stay where he puts it. “I’m not preening, I’m battling. It’s a battle!” He unlocks the door and yanks it open with a huff. “My hair won’t behave,” he sighs. “I hate it. I look like a demented goblin.”

His dad tilts his head, squints and says, “It’s not terrible. But you do need it cut.”

Stiles scowls. “Thanks, Pops. Way to boost my confidence. Remind me again why I agreed to go on this date?”

“Because you’ve been making heart eyes at Peter Hale since you were sixteen? This is just nerves, kid. Besides, Peter won’t give a damn about your hair – didn’t he ask you out while you were covered in mud?”

Stiles groans. “Don’t remind me.” Peter had, indeed, asked him out while he was coated head to toe in black slime from where he’d tripped over a tree root in the preserve and gone sliding on his belly down a muddy bank. Peter had found him at the bottom, smirking as he’d offered Stiles his hand, and when he’d helped him up he’d said, “Tell me, Stiles, are you free for dinner on Friday night? With your father’s permission, of course.”

Stiles had been so stunned he’d stood there with his mouth hanging open right until Peter had placed a fingertip under his chin and closed it. “You can say no,” he’d offered, his smirk fading.

“No! I mean no, I don’t want to say no, I mean, yes please,” Stiles had said in a rush, because his father was right about that, too – he _had_ been pining over Peter for four long years. “I’d love to go on a date with you.” Doubt had seized him then. “You do mean a date, right?”

Peter’s smile was back, in full, dazzling force. “Yes Stiles, I mean a date.”

Of course, he’d followed the protocols and called Stiles’s father asking permission to court his son, which Stiles personally thought was so much old fashioned bullshit -just because he was an omega it didn’t mean he was an idiot – but he’d still breathed a sigh of relief when his dad had given the whole thing his blessing.

Stiles doesn’t date, is the thing. Oh, he’s had offers, but he’s never believed in going through the motions for the sake of it, and if he's being honest, it would be unfair to the people courting him, because Stiles is irrationally fixated on Peter Hale, has been since his first heat hit at sixteen and he spent three days in his room with a heat toy, and his go-to fantasy the entire time featured a certain werewolf with blue eyes, a smirk, and a v-neck.

But here he is, about to go on a date with the object of his desires (and wow, that sounds ridiculously cheesy even in his own mind), and he’s quietly terrified he’ll say or do something that’ll put Peter off. His father, who’s always been able to read him like a book, says, “Son, this isn’t some random stranger. This is Peter. He knows you, and he must like you, or he wouldn’t have asked you out in the first place. I don’t think this,” he reaches over and tugs at the offending lock of hair, ”is gonna be a dealbreaker.”

Stiles exhales a shaky breath. “You’re right. He knows what he’s getting. I just –“ he hesitates, and his father nods for him to go on, “if he really liked me, why wait so long to ask me out?”

The corner of his father’s mouth twitches. “Maybe because your father’s the sheriff and he didn’t want to date jailbait?”

“Dad!” Stiles screeches in horror, eyes widening. “You can’t say things like that!”

His father is unrepentant. “Why not? It’s a fact. The age of consent is twenty for omegas, and he asks you out a week after your birthday? That’s not a coincidence. Peter’s been biding his time, that’s all.”

“Oh my god, “Stiles mutters, blushing. “Just, can we not talk about this? It’s not like I’m gonna let him…” His face heats, and Stiles suspects he might burst into flames if they have to talk about this any further.

His father lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t, kid. My point is, Peter thinks enough of you enough to wait before asking to court you. He likes you, trust me.”

Stiles nods, relaxing under his dad’s hand and breathing in his alpha pheromones, and he can feel himself unwinding further. Just having an alpha near is doing wonders for his nerves. He bucks against his biology some days, but there are some perks, too, like his dad being able to calm him with a touch. And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t thoroughly enjoy his heats for example, the days spent in a haze of arousal and self-satisfaction. He looks forward to the day he can share that with someone else. Peter, maybe.

He pulls himself up at that thought. No. It’s their first date, and far too early to be even considering that. Stiles plans to save himself for his mate, like he should. He personally thinks it’s a stupid system, but it’s how things are. Good omegas wait – and decent alphas, too. Of course, Stiles knows for a fact that some of his alpha friends have dipped their wicks, and not all his omega friends are as chaste as their parents think either, but with his dad in an elected position, Stiles isn’t prepared to take that chance - knowing his luck he’d get knocked up, and a pregnant, unwed omega child is a scandal his father doesn’t need. Besides, Stiles doesn’t want kids, not yet anyway.

There’s a sharp rap at the front door, pulling him out of his thoughts. “That’ll be your date, his father says with a final pat to his shoulder. “Go on.”

Stiles runs a hand through his disaster hair one last time, then clatters down the stairs, pulling the door open to find Peter standing there .“Hey," he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say, everwhelmed in the face of a perfectly groomed Peter Hale. His eyes rove over Peter’s body, taking in the shirt that’s unbuttoned more than is strictly decent, the sinfully tight jeans, the corded muscles in Peter’s neck, before lighting on his face where Peter’s wearing his customary smirk. “Hey,” he repeats, as every intelligent thought he’s ever had flies right out of his head.

“Stiles,” Peter sketches a tiny bow, “Are you ready?”

Does he not look ready? Stiles glances down at himself and immediately doubts all his clothing choices. “I think so? Is this not all right? Should I change?”

“You look good enough to eat, sweetheart,” Peter says, and a shiver runs down Stiles’s spine at the obvious want in Peter’s voice.

“My son’s not a snack, Peter,” his dad growls from where he’s followed Stiles downstairs, and Stiles can sense the tension in the air for a split second, before Peter lowers his gaze.

“Of course not, John, it’s a figure of speech,” Peter says smoothly, before turning to face Stiles, ”but you do look very fetching.”

Stiles has gone for a classic black collared shirt, and has paired it with the jeans Lydia bought him - the ones that he has to roll around on the bed to get up his thighs, but that she’s assured him make his ass look incredible. He was going for sexy (but not too sexy), and apparently, he’s succeeded. He grins, and says, “You too. Nice. Look, I mean.” _Jesus, Stiles, is that even a sentence?_ He can’t help it – his brain is apparently pudding when Peter’s around. He sighs and sticks out a hand. “Hi. I’m Stiles. I fail at talking when in the presence of a good looking alpha. Pleased to meet you.”

Peter grins, all teeth and mischief, and shakes his hand firmly. “Pleased to meet you Stiles. My name’s Peter, and my hobbies include reducing delightful young omegas to gibbering wrecks solely with the power of my attractiveness.”

Stiles snorts unattractively at that. Peter snickers along with him, and Stiles’s nerves dissolve as they stand there laughing at themselves, hands still clasped. It’s Peter, he reminds himself. They fool around like this, bounce off each other, all the time. It’ll be fine.

“Jesus, you two are made for each other,” Stiles’s father groans, and makes a flapping notion. “Go. Have fun. Don’t be late.”

“Sure thing, Dad.” Peter tugs gently at Stiles’ hand and leads him out the door, and Stiles lets himself enjoy the skin on skin contact from an alpha who’s not his father. Peter opens Stiles’s car door for him, and even though Stiles has been successfully getting in and out of vehicles since he was a child, he still appreciates the gesture.

Then Peter slides in behind the driver’s seat and leans over to do up Stiles’s seatbelt, and Stiles doesn’t miss the possessiveness in the gesture, raising his eyebrows. “Safety first, sweetheart,” Peter purrs, and how exactly, Stiles wonders, does he manage to make that sound filthy?

“I - uh huh,” Stiles says, distracted by the way Peter’s hand is still resting against his hip and jesus, he’s a real winner with the sparkling conversation tonight, isn’t he?

Peter just grins, put the car in drive, and takes him to dinner.

* * *

Stiles is in love.

He’s head over heels, head in the clouds, moonstruck, dancing on air, pick a cliché, any cliché, and he’s it. He’d think it was pathetic if he weren’t enjoying it so much.

Stiles can objectively state that their first date was, by any standards, a disaster. No evening that ends in the emergency room could be called a success.

Still, at least he knows he has a seafood allergy now.

And Peter had been…a revelation, actually. Given the way they normally trade good natured insults, Stiles had half expected Peter to tease him about his swollen face and blotchy hives, but he'd shown nothing but care and concern. Peter had bundled Stiles into his car and driven him to the hospital, called his dad, and then sat at his bedside and held his hand even though it wasn’t strictly proper for him to do so, subtly draining his pain and apologizing repeatedly for picking a seafood restaurant, even though there was no way to know this would happen.

In fact, it had been Peter who’d first picked up on Stiles’s adverse reaction, even before Stiles did. He’d tilted his head, nostrils flaring, and frowned, before reaching across the table and holding the back of his hand to Stiles’s forehead. “Something’s not right.”

“I feel fine,” Stiles had said, and promptly started choking on his lobster.

After that it had been panic stations as Stiles’s airways swelled shut and Peter drove him to the hospital with complete disregard for the speed limit, and the evening had ended with an unflattering hospital gown, epinephrine shots, and an overnight hospital stay, Stiles silently mourning his one chance to impress Peter as he drifted off into a drug-addled sleep. When he’d woken the next morning though, it had been to his father grinning at the side of his bed as he nodded towards a giant bunch of flowers that bore a note saying _Worst first date ever. Shall we try it again, without the fish?_

And they had.

It was much better the second time around. They opted for burgers and bowling, which Peter won of course, because he’s a werewolf and a damned showoff, but it was still a lot of fun, and with Stiles being able to breathe, it meant that when Peter dropped him off home, he had sufficient oxygen to sneak a goodnight kiss.

They’ve been dating for three months now, and Stiles couldn’t be happier with how things are progressing. Peter’s been nothing but courteous, and he’s adhered to all the ascribed steps of courting faithfully, which is how Stiles knows that the time’s coming when Peter will propose, formally ask his father for for his hand.

Again, it’s stupid and antiquated and sexist as all hell, but that doesn’t stop excitement curling in Stiles’s belly at the thought of it, not least of all because his attraction to Peter’s only grown stronger. It’s getting increasingly difficult to keep their kisses innocent and his hands off Peter’s belt buckle. More than once Peter’s wrapped a gentle a hand around Stiles’s wrist with a murmured,” Above the waist, sweetheart, at least for now.”

Stiles thinks it’s very unfair. It’s not like he wants to do anything he shouldn’t. He just wants to look, so he can mentally prepare for if – when - they mate.

Look, and maybe touch.

Okay fine, he wants to get all up in that and Peter’s right not to let him have his way. That doesn’t mean it sucks any less.

Still, if all goes the way Stiles hopes, Peter will ask any day now. He’s introduced Stiles to his family, which granted, was a formality since Stiles knows everyone, but still. It was the required public declaration of affection, a sign that their relationship is serious.

Peter’s also made a show of holding his hand when they’re out, bringing him hot chocolate, loaning Stiles his scarf and jacket when he’s cold, all the actions expected from an alpha with honorable intentions.

Stiles kinds of loves the way Peter’s courting him so studiously, even if it is bullshit.

The only thing left is a significant gift, which is usually a promise ring, and then a meeting with Stiles’s father.

Stiles sighs happily as he pulls into the driveway at Derek’s loft and meanders up the stairs. The door’s ajar and he stops when he hears his name.

“- just saying, it’s Stilinski who’s the loser here,” comes Jackson’s voice.

“You don’t even know if it’s true,” Lydia says, cool and a little disapproving.

“Listen, I do know. I remember overhearing my parents talking about it. Her father called mine and wanted to know if Peter could be sued for what he did. He can’t of course – it’s not illegal to break up with someone after you fuck them – but like I say, I’ll bet Stiles doesn’t know his precious alpha’s done this before, courted someone to the point of banging them and then bolted.”

Lydia says, ”Don’t be coarse, Jackson. And anyway, you said it happened ages ago. Stiles doesn’t need to know.”

“I say he does,” Jackson mutters. “In case Peter tries it again.”

Stiles’s heartbeat stutters in his chest and he slams the door back on its hinges. “Need to know what?” he demands.

Jackson starts, looking guilty. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. What are you talking about?” He glances around. ”Where’s Derek?” Because if there’s a rumor about Peter, Derek will probably know the truth of it.

“I’m here.” Derek steps out of the kitchen, and the stricken expression on his face tells Stiles all he needs to know. “Stiles,” he says, brows furrowed, "it was a long time ago.”

“What was?” Stiles folds his arms across his chest and attempts to stare Derek down. 

Derek raises an eyebrow and says, “Sit down and I’ll tell you about it, on the condition that you hear me out without interrupting. And you two,” he indicates Lydia and Jackson, “out. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Deal,” Stiles says quickly, and tries to stop his heart jumping out of his chest with nerves.

His foot taps impatiently and it doesn’t help his anxiety when Jackson puts a hand on his arm and says, “Hey. We’re just looking out for you, okay?” because if Jackson’s not being a dickbag, it must be worse than Stiles thought.

Finally, they’re gone, and Stiles settles himself in the armchair facing Derek, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped together to stop himself fidgeting, and says, “So, what? “You’re gonna tell me Peter’s some sort of infamous Lothario, and I’m about to be the latest in a line of despoiled conquests?” Derek’s suspiciously silent, and Stiles feels sick at the realization that his babbling might not be too far from the truth. “Derek?”

Derek heaves a sigh, and through gritted teeth, like it’s been dragged from the depths of his soul, says, “Not a long line, no.”

And that’s not what Stiles wanted to hear, but he promised he’d listen so he bites his tongue and instead splays his hands in a _go on_ gesture.

“Peter’s been involved before,“ Derek says. He pauses. “ _Heavily_ involved.” He raises his eyebrows. “You really want to hear this?”

Stiles nods, and resists the urge to shake Derek till some _goddam answers_ fall out of his fucking mouth.

Derek’s shoulders slump slightly, which is less than reassuring. “Peter was courting an omega, Caroline. It was all on, until suddenly it wasn’t.”

“People break up,” Stiles says through numb lips. “it’s a thing that happens.”

Derek scowls. “I thought you were going to listen.” Stiles shuts up.

Derek’s brows draw together and his face scrunches like he’s struggling to find words for what he needs to say, until Stiles can’t take it. “Just tell me, please.”

“Fine She claimed Peter promised to marry her, bedded her and then immediately broke up with her,” Derek says in a rush. “She tried to sue him for her damaged reputation, or her parents did, anyway.”

All the breath leaves Stiles’s body. “No.” he whispers, blood roaring in his ears, his heart racing. It’s unthinkable that Peter, _his_ Peter, would do that.

“Yes. The lawsuit was never going to happen, but she still ended up leaving town. Peter didn’t date for a long time after that, I guess because of the scandal.”

Stiles can only imagine. But still, it doesn’t sit right, not with what he knows of Peter. “Did he give a reason?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Derek shrugs. “He’s always refused to discuss it.” He gets that earnest expression of his and he leans forward. “But Stiles, that’s not what’s happening here, I’m sure of it. Peter _adores_ you.”

Stiles so desperately wants that to be true. “He’s been a perfect gentleman,” he says, “insists that everything be completely above board.”

Derek nods grimly. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

Which makes sense, Stiles supposes. He sits quietly, head bowed, taking a minute to roll the whole thing around in his head, and finally tells himself it doesn’t matter. The past is the past, and it’s not like Peter’s done anything to make Stiles think his intentions are anything but proper this time. He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine. “Thank you for telling me. And you’re right. This isn’t anything like that.”

Derek’s face softens into a rare smile. “You’re gone on him, aren’t you?”

Stiles doesn’t even have to think about it. Peter’s confident and clever and handsome and a little bit vain, something of an asshole when the situation calls for it, and infuriatingly right about most things, most of the time. Stiles wouldn’t change a single thing about him. “Totally gone,” he admits. “Do you really think he adores me?” he asks shyly, wanting to reassure himself that he’s not imagining the way things are headed.

“I don’t doubt it. He calls you his everything, Stiles.”

Stiles beams. “Peter’s - he’s perfect. Those blue eyes, those bulging biceps, and his big –“

“He’s my _uncle,_ Stiles,” Derek cuts in quickly.

“I was going to say _heart_ , Der,” Stiles lies, fluttering his lashes. (He’s totally seen the bulge in the front of of Peter’s pants, okay, even if he won’t get to touch it till after the wedding.)

Derek snorts. “Go home, Stiles, and stop worrying. Like you said, past is past.”

* * *

Stiles pushes what he’s heard to the back of his mind, more or less successfully. It was a long time ago, he reminds himself. Everyone makes mistakes. That Peter doesn't sound anything like _his_ Peter.

It helps that three days later, Peter takes the next step in their courtship and presents Stiles with his gift. It’s the expected promise ring, a gorgeous platinum and diamond band, and Peter presents it to him over dinner, visibly preening when Stiles slips it on and has to blink back tears. By the time they leave the restaurant, Stiles’s face hurts from smiling so hard, and he can’t stop looking at the ring, sneaking glances every few seconds. “I’m so glad you like it, sweetheart, “Peter says as they walk back to the car, hand in hand. “I had the devil’s own time choosing – nothing seemed good enough for my precious boy.”

“It’s perfect. Just like you,” Stiles says, and takes the chance to press Peter against the side of the car and lean in for a kiss. He half expects Peter to push him away after one kiss, but for a change, he doesn’t. Instead his arms wrap around Stiles’s back, holding him close. Peter leans in and whispers in his ear, “I’m talking to your father tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Stiles pulls back, grinning widely. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Going to ask for permission to set a date.” A thrill runs through Stiles at the news. This is really happening. Peter’s going to marry him. Fuck Jackson and his stupid rumors and accusations.

Still, Stiles gives Peter a gentle shove. “You’re asking him and not me?” he teases. “What if I don’t want to marry you?”

The look on Peter’s face is priceless. “Stiles, you took the ring. I thought –“ Peter steps back hastily. “Are you turning me down?”

He looks so devastated at the prospect that Stiles doesn’t have the heart to keep up the charade. “Of course not, idiot. I’m kidding. I would love to marry you.”

Peter’s face lights up, and Stiles doesn’t miss the tiny exhale of relief he gives. Then Peter’s cupping his face in his hands and kissing him, hot and hungry and far filthier than anything they’ve shared before, and Stiles is here for it. He closes his eyes and melts into the touch, parts his lips and lets Peter ravage his mouth until they’re both slightly breathless.

Stiles almost forgets that they’re in the parking lot of the steakhouse, but Peter obviously doesn’t. He pulls away. “We should get you home,” he says, voice laced with regret.

“I guess,” Stiles sighs, and slumps into the passenger’s seat. “But just so you know, I’m expecting a _short_ engagement.”

Peter laughs, low and soft. “Eager, baby?”

“You have no idea,” Stiles grumbles. “ I can't wait till we’re married, we're gonna do all the things.”

“I’d certainly hope so,” Peter says, smirking. He drives them home and Stiles spends half the time staring at his promise ring, and half the time watching Peter’s hands on the steering wheel, thinking about those elegant fingers, so perfectly manicured, imagining how they’d feel inside him, which leads to him thinking about Peter breaching him for the first time, filling him up deep the way heat toys never can, and it's a mistake, because as he squirms in his seat he begins to slick.

Despite what porn and trashy novels say, omegas don’t flood and gush every time they’re turned on – it would be a living nightmare – but there’s a definite telltale dampness in his jeans, an empty ache there as his body lets him know that now would be a very good time for Peter to fuck him, please.

Peter’s head snaps around, his eyes go wide, and Stiles groans internally, because of course Peter knows he’s turned on, can probably tell from his heartbeat and his breathing, quite apart from anything else. It strikes Stiles that he’s never going to be able to hide anything, ever. Fucking werewolves.

Peter inhales deeply, and as they pull up to Stiles’s house he nods at the empty driveway and says not-at-all casually, “John not home?”

“Nope, night shift.” 

Peter hums and cuts off the engine, and they sit there for a second, listening to the tick-tick of the cooling engine. Stiles opens his door and Peter gets out too. “Let me walk you to your door, sweetheart,” he says, placing a hand across Stiles’s back.

His lower back.

Okay, his ass. Peter has a hand on his ass, rubbing in slow circles as he walks him up the driveway, and Stiles is both thrilled and confused, because whatever happened to _above the waist?_

When they reach the front door, Peter gives his right ass cheek a gentle squeeze before sliding his hand up and gripping Stiles’s hip, other hand joining it on the other side so that they’re facing, and he backs Stiles against the closed door and kisses him, slow and dirty, like they did in the parking lot. Stiles lets out a whimper, because it’s unfair how fucking good this is.

He chases Peter’s tongue with his own, lets his arms drape around Peter’s shoulders and tangles one hand in his hair, holding Peter close because he doesn’t want this to end, wants more, wants it _all,_ even though he knows he can’t have it. It doesn’t help that he’s on the cusp of heat, knows it will hit in the next few days, and desire is surging through him.

It’s like having his face pressed to the cake shop window when he’s on a diet – awful, delicious torture - but he knows he can’t give in. He really, really doesn’t want to walk up the aisle with a baby bump, and if they do this, he’s bound to walk away pregnant.

He feels himself getting wetter, his cock thickening, aching, and that’s when Peter pushes in close and rolls his hips. Stiles can feel Peter’s erection, solid and unforgiving against his own. If they don’t stop now, Stiles isn’t sure he’ll be able to. He pulls back from Peter’s kiss long enough to make a noise that’s embarrassing close to a whine, before panting out, “Stop it, this isn’t fair.”

He expects Peter to pull back , just like he has every other time things when were getting steamy, but instead Peter drops his head to the curve of Stiles neck and inhales, before murmuring in a low voice, “You smell so good, baby.”

“Peter, we should stop.” Stiles’s voice sounds weak and unconvincing even to his own ears.

Peter does slow the sinful roll of his hips, but only long enough to whisper, “Do you _really_ want to stop? We’re practically engaged, sweetheart. Would it be so bad if we went inside? The house is empty, and the things I want to do to you...” He slides a hand up the back of Stiles’s shirt and splays it across his back, and the touch of skin on skin makes Stiles pull back as it hits him what’s happening.

Peter’s trying to seduce him.

The shock realization washes over him like a bucket of cold water, makes him gasp in the same way, and he shoves futilely at Peter’s chest, eyes wide. “What the _fuck_ , Peter?”

Peter frowns. “I’m just listening to what your body’s telling me, sweetheart. We both want this. Where’s the harm?”

And that’s when it all comes racing back, the barely-buried memory of what Stiles heard, and he mustn’t have done as good a job of suppressing it as he thought, because echoing in his mind is Jackson's voice, sneering, _“I’ll bet Stiles doesn’t know his precious alpha’s done this before, courted someone to the point of banging them and then bolted.”_

An unbidden rage comes roaring out of nowhere, fuelled by hurt and betrayal, and Stiles takes a deep breath and shoves at Peter hard enough that the man stumbles backwards a step. “Don’t tell me what I want! And don’t use what my body does against me!” he snaps, poking Peter in the chest with his finger, driving him backwards. “If you think I’m letting you bed me, you can fuck right off!”

Peter fishmouths at him for a split second, then digs his heels in, refusing to be moved further. “Stiles, I don’t know why you’re so upset that I want to take you to bed. Is it such a crime to be attracted to the man I'm marrying? Besides, you want this too.”

Stiles _does_ want it, and somehow that makes it worse, that Peter was so quick to suggest it at the first sign of weakness of Stiles’s part. It makes his anger bloom afresh. “ _We have to wait_ , you said, and I’ve waited, and now you want to change the rules just because it suits you? Did you think that because you buy me a pretty ring, that means you can get into my pants? You’re proposing, but there are strings attached,” Stiles is breathing hard, heart racing, and he holds up the hand with the ring. “ There’s a name for a gift with strings attached, Peter. It’s called fucking _bait._ ”

He desperately hopes Peter will step back, apologize, tell him he’s misunderstood. But Peter’s spine stiffens and he locks eyes with Stiles, challenging. “You're the one who' said you can't wait. _You’re_ the one who wanted a short engagement. What exactly is your problem, Stiles?”

And the way he says it, like Stiles is in the wrong here for trying to do the right thing, makes Stiles stop and think. What _is_ his problem? He takes a deep, shuddering breath as his brain whispers, _the problem is_ , _you don’t trust him_.

And can he really marry someone he doesn’t trust?

His hands shake as he takes off the ring. “I think this whole thing was a mistake,’ he says, voice cracking, eyes wet, ring placed on his upturned palm as he holds it out. “Don’t call me.”

When Peter doesn’t take it, just stares wide eyed, Stiles lets his hand drop, and the ring falls to the ground as he turns his back and walks inside.

He locks the door, ignores the frantic hammering from outside, and goes upstairs, burying himself under his blankets as his heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter was cynical about love, about relationships in general after the disaster that was his failed courtship with Caroline. She’d said all the right things, said she cared, that he was the one, but she hadn’t hesitated to throw him under the bus when it suited her. Peter’s never shared the details with anyone, isn’t sure he ever will, but to say it had soured him on the whole idea of romance was an understatement.

After, he’d had no time for true love, mates, eyes across a crowded room, any of it.

That all changed the first time he met Stiles.

He didn’t even meet him, not really. It was more that Cora dragged the boy home from school for some project or other, and Peter’s senses honed in on him as Stiles barrelled across the room after Cora, mouth going a mile a minute, hands waving about wildly, a tiny, self-contained, fast-moving mass of limbs and terrible hair and raucous laughter.

And as he watched, as his nostrils flared and he caught the tiniest whiff of Stiles’s scent, his wolf perked up and delivered a message.

_Him._

_Ridiculous. He’s a child_. Peter dismissed the thought.

 _He’s the one,_ his wolf insisted.

Almost against his will, Peter found himself lingering. Not watching, exactly, just…finding things to do in the same room, that was all. Talia gave him a pointed look, one that told him she could smell it too. The boy was _omega_ , although Peter doubted he knew it yet, was barely old enough to have presented.

Cora noticed him hanging around, and promptly used it to her advantage. “Uncle Peter, come help us,” she urged, unaware of the way Peter was drawn to her friend.

Peter affected a look of nonchalance. “Who am I helping and why, exactly?”

“Stiles and me have to do a presentation in history about Watergate. You’re old. Tell us what to say,” Cora wheedled.

Peter’s gave Cora an affronted look. “Wretched child. I’ll have you know I’m _thirty._ ”

“Like I said, old,” Cora shrugged, earning a snort from the boy and a smirk that sat far too well on his young face, overriding the terrible buzzcut and adolescent awkwardness.

 _Ours,_ his wolf insisted, and Peter knew, in that moment, that it was true.

He was painfully aware of the undeniable pull towards the newcomer. He turned to face him and gave a nod. “I'm Peter. And you are?”

“Stiles,” the boy breathed out, eyes wide at being addressed.

“Well, Stiles. Make sure you don’t let my bossy niece trick you into doing all the work.”

“I won’t,” Stiles agreed, and turned his attention back to the laptop he and Cora were hunched over.

Peter slid into the chair next to them and in a move that was uncharacteristically selfless, spent the next few hours helping them. Of course, it meant that he was able to surreptitiously scent Stiles and spend time with him, so perhaps it wasn’t completely selfless. Peter laughed more that afternoon than he had in weeks. His heart sank when he realized that Stiles was tantalizing, mesmerizing - and completely off limits.

 _He’s a child,_ he grumbled at his wolf.

_He’ll grow._

_And what am I meant to do in the meantime?_ Peter challenged, already knowing the answer.

_You’ll wait._

And wait he had.

* * *

It wasn’t a hardship.

Stiles was clever and funny and good company, and even finding out that the Hales were werewolves barely threw him off his stride. Talia made the decision to bring him into the know when it became apparent that Stiles and Cora were going to be joined at the hip for the foreseeable future, and later she’d pulled Peter into her office and a discussion was had about when, exactly was Peter planning to tell her that he had intentions towards the boy? Peter had sputtered and deflected until she’d fixed him with a hard stare and reminded him, “You’re not the only one in this house with observational skills and a sense of smell, Peter. He’s your mate, isn’t he?”

Talia was unbearably smug when Peter admitted that she was right.

Still, she’d been good about it, had agreed that the course of action he’d decided on was the best one – wait till Stiles was of age, and court him properly. It was blatantly obvious that Stiles was as interested in Peter as Peter was in him, so Peter was confident that when the time came, it would all be smooth sailing.

And it had been.

Admittedly, there’d been a moment a few months after Stiles presented when Peter had had to sit on his hands. Stiles’s best friend Scott turned out to be an alpha and Peter was low-key terrified that Stiles would fall into a partnership with his childhood friend, but Talia, bless her overprotective heart, could see Peter getting more and more wound up at the possibility, so had made sure Peter was _right there_ when she said to Stiles that wasn’t it handy that he had a ready-made alpha now.

Peter had almost collapsed with relief when Stiles had laughed loudly and told Talia, “Never in a million years. Scott’s not my type,” and neither of them had missed the way his eyes had unconsciously flicked to Peter as he said it.

When Peter finally asked Stiles out, it was a dream courtship. As Stiles had matured, he’d grown into himself and only become more attractive, and it turned Peter on more than he liked to admit when Stiles also got smarter and more mouthy with every passing year, engaging Peter in verbal battles just for the hell of it.

Peter loved it.

Once they were an item, Peter was careful to be the very model of propriety. He knew that Stiles was conscious of his reputation as the son of the sheriff, and made sure to respect that - but he was also impatient - and after three months, he decided he’d waited long enough.

He bought the ring and popped the question, dared to hope for a happy ending.

Apparently that was a little too much to ask for, he thinks, staring at the door that’s just been slammed in his face. He’s not quite sure what’s just happened, honestly. Stiles accepted his proposal, and he’s been pushing the edge of wanting more for weeks, had even _said_ he was keen.

And Peter? Well, he’s only flesh and blood, and he’s been waiting years for this – hasn’t dated anyone, has kept himself for Stiles, even if Stiles doesn’t know that. He can hardly be blamed for following the cues Stiles was giving him, not when the boy's so open about his desires, and the scent of lust is rolling off him in a thick fog.

But when Peter, quite reasonably in his opinion, suggested they make the most the opportunity to be alone? Stiles flew into a rage, accused Peter of – well, Peter’s not even sure what he’s been accused of, to be honest, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that the ring came off the finger, Stiles said they were a mistake, and what the fuck is Peter meant to do now?

He hammers on the door in frustration, but he hears the lock click into place, hears footsteps retreating upstairs, and then there’s silence. Peter strains his wolf hearing and can make out the sound of muffled crying.

He feels a lot like crying himself.

He doesn’t, though. Instead he lets out a shaky breath, bends down, picks up the ring and pockets it. It’s clear that something Peter did was deeply offensive, and Stiles doesn’t want to talk to him tonight.

Peter didn’t think he was coming on that strong, but Stiles obviously feels differently. Maybe after a night’s sleep he’ll be calmer, more reasonable. Peter decides that he’ll come back in the morning and apologize, and hopefully he can make it right. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Stiles won’t forgive him, though.

Not when he knows that Stiles is the one.

* * *

Stiles does not forgive him.

Stiles refuses to even see him.

When Peter turns up bearing flowers and an apology, he’s met by John Stilinski carrying an honest-to-god rifle and wearing a scowl. “I don’t know what the hell happened, but Stiles said if you turn up I have his full permission to shoot you, and given how upset he is, I’m inclined to take him up on it, “John growls out.

“There was a misunderstanding,” Peter says hesitantly, while he wonders how he can get John to listen without actually having to tell the man that his crime was wanting to bed his son.

It turns out to be a moot point. “Don’t care. He doesn’t wanna see you. Said don’t come back, don’t call, don’t write.” He takes a step closer to Peter. “You gonna listen, or am I spending the morning hosing blood off my porch?”

Peter steps back, still not quite able to believe the vehemence of Stiles’ reaction. “I’ll go, but I swear, it’s just a miscommunication.” He holds out the flowers, lowering them onto the porch. “There’s a letter for Stiles,” he says indicating the bouquet. The letter contains an impassioned plea for forgiveness, a promise to respect Stiles’s boundaries. Peter spent hours before dawn writing it, running his hands through his hair and trying desperately to get the words right. “If you could see he gets it…”

When John shoots the bouquet, it explodes into a riot of greenery and color. “Nope. You hurt my kid. Get out.” John cocks the gun again, and Peter takes the hint.

* * *

Peter wants to beg Stiles for another chance. He wants to park outside his house and send a stream of gifts and messages.

He wants to stand under his window with a boombox and an eighties love ballad.

He does none of those things, the memory of exploding roses fresh in his mind. Instead, he does what he did last time he was dumped. He hides, and he drinks. He locks himself away in his apartment and works his way though his selection of scotches, starting with the fifteen year old Glenfiddich.

He drinks it neat and it burns as it goes down, a welcome distraction from the fact that Stiles has left him, and Peter’s not even sure why.

Taking things further was a suggestion, that’s all. A perfect opportunity, or so he’d thought, for some privacy, a chance to explore each other’s bodies. He really hadn’t intended to go any further than Stiles allowed. But Stiles had reacted like the very idea of it was the crime of the century, and Peter’s damned if he knows why. He stares into the bottom of his glass and wonders morosely what it says about him that he only falls in love with people who hurt him.

First Caroline, now Stiles.

It cuts deeper this time around.

With Caroline, he’d known she was far from perfect, had already been contemplating ending things with her, but he’d still been stunned when her parents found a used condom in her room and she hadn’t hesitated to point the finger at Peter and claim he’d coaxed her into bed with a promise to marry her. He remembers thinking at the time, _“But Ma, he said we’d be married!”_ _Gods, can she get any more cliched?_

What stung the most was that the condom wasn’t even his. That was how he found out she’d been seeing someone else all along. And then her parents had tried to sue him for ‘ruining’ their daughter, and Peter? He’d retreated, refused to discuss it, and stayed determinedly single for the next year, deciding that he was done with dating and romance.

And then Cora had brought her friend home from school, and Peter remained determinedly single for a completely different reason - because he was waiting for Stiles.

That’s what makes this worse. He’d been convinced Stiles was his mate. His wolf had _insisted._ But Stiles doesn’t know they’re mates, because Peter never got to tell him, and now he probably never will. Peter will grow old alone and become bitter and cynical, while Stiles will probably go on to marry someone perfect and gorgeous and pop out three equally perfect children, and if he sees Peter in the street he’ll turn his head the other way so that their eyes never meet, and Peter will never, ever get the chance to make this right.

Peter’s stomach twists in knots at the very idea of it, of Stiles with someone else. He goes to refill his glass, to see if the burn can’t mask the ache in his chest. After a moment’s consideration he decides to cut out the middleman, and drinks from the bottle instead.

He considers calling Stiles but pushes the idea aside. John, he knows, will be driven by his instincts to protect his omega child at all costs. The threat of blood on the porch wasn’t an idle one – _I feared for my omega’s safety_ is a legitimate legal defense for a reason.

No, he decides, he’ll keep his distance. Him and his liquor cabinet will face this together.

At least booze has never let him down.

* * *

Stiles’s heat hits him the day after he breaks up with Peter, and it’s a gut-wrenching reminder of what he no longer has. His go-to fantasies no longer work, tainted with the memory of their fight and Peter’s betrayal, and the whole thing is miserable. He ruts against a pillow listlessly, body demanding release, but it’s perfunctory, unsatisfying, more about meeting a base need than bringing himself any sort of pleasure.

He cries, comes, cries some more, sleeps in fits and starts, and waits for it to be over.

His emotional state must bleed through into his biology, because Stiles only has to suffer through it for two days until finally he wakes up and his first instinct isn’t to wrap his hand around his dick or shove a plug up his ass, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

His stomach growls, painfully empty. He barely picked at the meals his dad left for him - uninterested in food, uninterested in anything, mourning the bright future he’d built up in his mind, a future where he and Peter would have been stupidly, blissfully happy with each other, maybe even have a couple of kids. Stiles blinks back a fresh wave of despair and reminds himself firmly that Peter’s a manipulative bastard and Stiles is better off without him.

Then he hauls himself out of bed and into the shower, standing there until the hot water runs out in an attempt to wash away his misery and his slick. It’s partially successful - at least the slick’s gone when he’s finished.

He pulls on a t shirt and boxers, skin still too sensitive for real clothes, and slinks downstairs to the kitchen. His dad’s there, on heat supervision leave Stiles assumes, and he nudges a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs Stiles’s way, the ideal post-heat meal. Stiles takes it silently and eats mechanically, aware that it’s good, but unable to enjoy it, instead confronted by the spectre of years and years of plates of eggs prepared by his father and not Peter.

He shoves the plate away and swallows convulsively, tries to keep his emotions under control, but it’s a lost cause. His father takes in his drooping shoulders, his uneaten meal, and says, “Listen, I know you’re not up to much today. Probably not tomorrow, either. But once you’re feeling more like yourself we’re gonna talk, and you’re gonna tell me what Peter did that was so bad that you had me threaten him with a shotgun.”

Stiles sighs. “Do I have to?”

His father raises an eyebrow. “You courted for three months. Before what ever the hell this was happened, he’d arranged to take me out to breakfast, so I assumed a ring was next. You were _happy_. Can you blame me for wanting answers?”

Stiles ducks his head, pulling his plate closer and poking at his eggs, just to have something to do. “He wasn’t who I thought he was, and I don’t want to talk about it.” He glances up at his father. “Please?”

His father’s expression softens. “Like I say, we’ll talk when you’re over your heat lag. For now, eat something at least.”

Stiles nods miserably, and shovels in a few more bites of egg. His father brings him coffee, and says casually, “So, you wanna watch John Wick with me?” making Stiles perk up, because there’s nothing that lifts Stiles’s spirits like watching some murderous, vengeful Keanu, and his dad knows it.

“Yeah. That’d be good.”

He wraps himself in a blanket and leans into his dad’s side, letting himself be comforted. He doesn’t see much past the first twenty minutes, and then his dad’s shaking him awake and helping him shuffle upstairs. When they get to his room Stiles sees that the bed’s been changed and the room tidied, and he mumbles out a ‘Thanks, pops,” before sliding between fresh sheets and falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

He sleeps most of the day away, only getting up to eat, and then he sleeps another twelve hours, but that’s normal – heat lag’s aptly named, after all.

When he gets up the next day and continues to sigh and mope his way from room to room though, that’s not normal, and he knows it, but Stiles can’t help it. he feels hollow inside, like there’s a gaping, bloody wound where his heart used to be, a yawning chasm of loss and grief. He finds himself reading over old text messages from Peterm looking for any clue that he might have missed that Peter was the sort to fuck and run, but there’s nothing there, only reminders of good timesand an attentive alpha.

 _He was trying to lull you into a false sense of security_ , Stiles reminds himself. If that’s the case, he thinks grimly, Peter did a pretty good job, because Stiles had been prepared to marry him. Except Peter didn’t want that, did he? That was all part of the ruse, an excuse to get Stiles into bed.

Except.

Why? That’s what Stiles doesn’t understand. Peter’s objectively hot. Anyone would tap that. So why would he go to all the effort of pretending to court Stiles when he could probably pick someone up with just a wink and a suggestive smile? It makes no sense at all.

Stiles groans and lets his head hit the kitchen table with a thunk, and that’s where his dad finds him, laying there like a dead thing and staring into space. He sighs and pats Stiles on the shoulder before pulling the chair opposite out and plopping himself down, saying, “Enough. Talk.”

“Don’t wanna,” Stiles mumbles into the woodgrain.

His father drums his fingertips on the tabletop in a steady, repetitive rhythm. It vibrates through the wood, and is annoying enough that Stiles is forced to peel his face off the surface. He glares at his dad, who smiles like the pushy bastard he is and says, ”That’s better. Now, how about you tell me what the hell’s going on? What, exactly did Peter do?”

Stiles bites his lip, and tries to find a way to say it. “He – Peter – we were, you know…”

His father raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna assume the rest of that sentence is _holding hands._ ”

“Right,” Stiles nods. “We were, um, holding hands, and Peter, he – told he was planning to talk to you, and I was so happy, and I really thought he cared, but then he said we were practically married, and suggested that since you weren’t home we could go inside and uh...” he casts about for a euphemism, and finally comes up with, “hold both hands.” He blushes as he says it and trusts his father won’t need further explanation.

His father frowns. “He tried to force you?”

“No!" Stiles says, shocked that his dad would think that, "but Dad, he asked,“ Stiles falters, because really, Peter hadn’t tried to force anything, had he?

His dad’s brow furrows further. “Granted, he was out of line, but that can’t be the whole story?”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s not,” he whispers. “Peter’s – he’s done this before. Courted someone and then, y’know, and then left them.”

John cocks his head. “Are you sure about that?”

Stiles nods, and he can’t meet his dad’s eyes when he says, “Jackson said, he says her parents tried to sue Peter for damages to her reputation, but it never went anywhere.”

There’s silence, and when Stiles lifts his had his dad looks like he’s struggling not to say something. Stiles groans. “I know, I should have dumped him as soon as I heard, but I thought I was different, we were different. I really thought he loved me, Dad. How stupid was I? He just wanted to add another notch to his belt.” His voice hitches.

There’s the screech of chairleg on floorboard as his dad pushes his seat back and rounds the table, dragging Stiles to his feet and pulling him close, shushing him and enveloping him in strong arms. It’s too much kindness for Stiles to bear, and he buries his face in his dad’s chest and quietly falls apart.

He stays there for long minutes, shaking with silent sobs, and his dad just holds him and waits, until finally, with a last sniffle, Stiles draws a watery breath, pulls back, and admits, “I miss him, Dad.”

It’s his dad’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you, son. But I gotta say, something about Jackson’s story seems off.”

Stiles looks up at him, eyes wide. “Right? But I mean, Peter definitely implied we should take things further.” He buries his face again but this time its from embarrassment. Talking about managing his heats in a clinical sense with his dad is one thing. Talking about the possibility of himself having _actual_ sex is way more embarrassing.

John hums, and Stiles feels the inhale before his father says, ”Has it occurred to you that maybe Peter could sense your heat coming on, and his self-control just got a little shaky? And I’m not saying that’s okay,” he hastens to add, “just that it’s something to factor in, given that’s he’s a wolf, and his sense of smell’s, well, you know.”

When Stiles looks up, he sees that his dad’s the one blushing this time. “But, the other engagement, the other omega. It shows a pattern, and I don’t wanna be part of it.”

“Nope,” his dad corrects. “Once is an incident, twice is coincidence, three’s a pattern. You know this, kiddo.” His dad runs a hand through Stiles’s hair. “What do you want, Stiles? Do you want to move on and forget this happened? Do you want revenge? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

Stiles bites his lip and thinks about it, tries to push past the hurt and the need to kick out in pain and bitterness. And in the end, there’s really only one answer. “I want my happy ending, Pops.”

His father huffs out an exasperated laugh. “Sure. Ask for the simple option.”

Stiles shrugs. “I didn’t say I expect it. But that’s what I want.”

“Aw hell, kid.” His dad pulls him close and hugs him so tight he can barely breathe, and Stiles isn’t sure which of them needs it most.

* * *

Peter hates rum.

Maybe that’s why this bottle has sat untouched for two years at the back of his booze cupboard. But everything else is gone, and it’s either learn to like rum or leave the house, and he’s not in any state to go anywhere, so rum it is.

He takes a swig, grimaces, and makes an involuntary gagging noise, a shudder running through him. It’s as bad as he remembers. But anything’s preferable to sobering up.

He’d tried that yesterday, and quickly discovered that the pain of rejection was still too raw for him to face. That’s when he drank an entire bottle of peppermint schnapps. It combined horribly with the bag of Doritos he was working his way through at the time, but he wasn’t in any state to cook, and again, it was a case of not being fit to leave the house.

Besides, he thinks miserably, it’s not like he needs to keep the snacks around for Stiles, now. He takes another swig of rum, belches up liquor and fake cheese. His nose wrinkles as he catches the smell of his own breath, but then he shrugs.

It doesn’t matter that his breath stinks, or that he has crumbs in his beard, or that he’s been wearing the same shirt and sweats for three days. Who’s going to care?

Sure, he’s had missed calls from Talia and Derek, but he’s ignored them. They’re not who he wants to hear from, and he just can’t bring himself to tell them what happened. He’s not ready to share his hurt, not yet. He needs time to process. If he doesn’t say it out loud, he can pretend it’s not true. 

Except if it’s not true, why is he sitting here unwashed and unkempt and trying to stay drunk on the dregs of his booze cupboard?

The rum’s not even having the desired effect, and he remembers now that it was a gift from someone not in the know, so it’s not laced with the wolfsbane necessary to give it a kick. He’s drinking something that he hates and it’s not even _working_.

He mutters under his breath as he pushes himself up out of his armchair and shuffles through to the kitchen to pour the rest of the bottle down the drain. He’ll order online – someone will deliver, surely. He rubs one hand over his face, and wonders if he should eat something.

He’s still contemplating it when there’s a sudden sharp rap on his door.

 _Stiles,_ he thinks immediately, and then remembers that no, Stiles isn’t talking to him right now. Possibly never again.

Whoever it is knocks again, hammering louder this time, and John’s voice floats through the door. “Hale? Open up. We need to talk.”

Peter walks over and opens the door. “What is it?" he demands, gripped by a sudden certainty that something terrible's happened, and only slightly reassured by the fact John's not in uniform. " Is Stiles alright?”

John stops to look Peter up and down, then makes a seesawing motion with his hand. “I’d say he’s about as good as you. You gonna let me in?”

“Depends,” Peter says, relief flooding through him. “Are you here to shoot me?”

John makes that same seesawing motion. “Not immediately.”

Peter sighs and steps back, allowing John inside. “Excuse the-” he waves his hand vaguely at the detritus scattered throughout the room. Empty bottles and chip packets litter the floor, and there’s an old blanket trailing off the couch that Peter’s been hiding underneath. The whole place stinks of stale booze and snack food, and he sees John’s nostrils flare. “Why are you here, John?” he asks, too tired to play games.

John lets out a long- suffering sigh. “I’m here because my kid’s devastated, and when I asked what happened he told me some story about a scandal involving you and some omega in the past. He’s gotten it in his head that your plan all along was to bed him and bolt and frankly, something about the whole thing stinks.” He pauses, “Unless you _were_ planning to bed and bolt, in which case you’d best start running.”

“Stiles thinks I wanted to _bed and bolt?_ ” Peter’s mouth drops open. Suddenly, it all makes an awful kind of sense. “Of course he did. He must have heard the rumors about Caroline. God, what a mess,” he groans.

John folds his arms over his chest. “So it’s not true?”

“Not even remotely.”

“Oh, thank Christ,” John breathes out. "Stiles is slinking around the place like a wounded cat, miserable as all hell. I asked him what would make him feel better, told him I'd try make it happen, and you know what he said? He said he wants his happy ending. And damned If I'm not gonna try and give it to him."

His nostrils flare again, and he gives Peter’s shoulder a gentle shove. “But first, for the love of god go take a shower, brush your damn teeth. You smell like a nacho truck drove into a distillery. And then you can tell me your story, and maybe we can figure out how to fix this damn mess.”

Peter, for the first time in days, feels the stirrings of something that’s not abject misery or the pain of abandonment. He doesn’t want to examine the feeling too closely in case he frightens it away, but he thinks it might just be…hope.

* * *

By the time Peter emerges dressed from his bedroom, John’s figured out his coffee machine. Peter takes the proffered cup gratefully. His head’s clearer now that he’s not wallowing, and he spent the time in the shower with his eyes closed under the water, running through the painful events of the past, attempting to blunt the edges of the old hurt so that it doesn’t cut too deeply when he has to drag it all out and talk about it.

He’s never discussed what happened with anyone, not since it happened. At the time, he was too proud and to wounded to admit he’d been played for a fool, preferring to let people say what they would – people, Peter knew, will believe whatever they want, facts be damned. But he knows he’ll have to tell the truth if there’s any chance of getting Stiles back.

He takes a set at the kitchen table opposite John, hands wrapped around his mug. John’s made him coffee, and the gesture, small though it is, reassures him that the man’s willing to listen. It gives him the courage to start talking.

“There was a girl, Caroline,” he starts.

* * *

After he’s told the whole sorry story in fits and starts, John lets out a low whistle. “Damn. No wonder Stiles got his wires crossed.”

Peter nods. “Someone obviously told him about it.”

John runs both hands down his face and sighs. “For the record, still not thrilled you wanted to take my kid upstairs.”

“It was the heat of the moment -“

John holds up a hand. “You were out of line, period. But.”

“But?” Peter holds his breath.

John goes to take a sip of his coffee, frowns when he realizes his cup’s empty, and finally says, “In spite of that, I’m actually on your side with this one. Stiles jumped to conclusions. Sometimes, for a smart kid, that boy can be an idiot. You sure you still wanna marry him?”

Peter breathes again. “More than anything. Stiles is – he’s my mate, John. I know you don’t get that, not being a wolf, but for better or for worse, and no matter how this turns out, Stiles is it for me, and always will be.”

Peter’s never admitted that to anyone, and it makes him feel strangely vulnerable, like telling John is giving him the power to make or break his happiness. But he needs him to know, to understand how important Stiles is.

John peers into his cup again as if it might have magically refilled, frowns again, and pushes his chair back, standing and stretching. “Pretty sure you’re it for him too. Never seen him so miserable. Let me go talk to him.” John walks to the door.

“I can come with you,” Peter offers, eager.

“Nope. Stiles doesn’t know I’m here, and I’m sure as shit not turning up with you in tow when he said he doesn’t want to see you. Lemme talk to him. Whether he calls you is up to him.”

Peter nods his understanding.

His wolf whines in distress at the thought of waiting. Peter tells it to shut the fuck up.

* * *

It’s close to an hour later that his phone rings, Stiles’s name flashing across the screen, and he snatches it off the coffee table and answers with a breathless, “Sweetheart?”

“You swear none of it’s true?” Stiles demands.

“None of it.” Peter’s heart is beating faster than it should, and he has to force himself not to babble down the phone, but he holds himself back, waiting.

“I’m coming over,” Stiles finally says, and hangs up.

Peter stands there for a moment, a grin spreading across his face, and then it hits him. Stiles is coming over _right now._ He goes and grabs a garbage bag and sets to work, clearing surfaces and finding abandoned chip packets, opening windows, wiping the Cheeto dust off the coffee table and carrying the discarded bottles and glasses into the kitchen, disposing of the evidence of his wallowing. 

It keeps him busy, stops him pacing back and forth. He checks his watch once he has the place looking respectable. He still has a few minutes, so he goes and changes out of his sweats and into some fitted jeans and a v neck that he knows Stiles is particularly fond of.

It might be optimistic, but he slips the ring into his pocket.

He’s just finished running his fingers through his hair to get it to sit right when there’s a knock at the door, and he’s there in an instant, pulling it open.

Stiles looks like hell.

There are dark circles under his eyes, he’s paler than usual, and all Peter wants to do is wrap him in his arms and beg for forgiveness for ever making him feel this way. He doesn’t get a chance though, because Stiles is launching himself at Peter, burying his face in the curve of his neck, breath hot against Peter’s skin as he says, “I missed you _so fucking much_.”

His arms snake around Peter’s back and he holds on tight. Peter doesn’t think twice about sliding his hands down and across Stiles’s ass and under this thighs, hoisting him up and carrying him inside, kicking the door shut with a bang before propping Stiles up against the wall and just standing there, soaking up his presence.

Peter would happily stay like that all day, but after a minute or two Stiles starts to squirm. “Put me down?”

Peter does, mourning the loss of contact, but he knows that they need to talk. Stiles doesn’t move away when his feet hit the floor though. Instead he cups Peter’s cheek in one hand and whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I thought that about you.”

His bottom lip trembles, and Peter traces a thumb across it. “Shhh. You were right to get mad. I shouldn’t have suggested what I did. I listened to your body, not to you.”

He removes his thumb from Stiles's plump bottom lip, hesitant. It’s Stiles who closes the gap, kissing him tenderly, and suddenly Peter feels alive again, the fragile hope from earlier blooming into something bigger, the roots of it twisting and winding as they wrap around his heart.

 _Ours,_ his wolf purrs.

There’s an awful lot of kissing after that.

* * *

They do, in fact move out of the doorway. Eventually. Peter sits on the couch and Stiles plasters himself against Peter’s side. It’s probably not quite proper, but when Peter points it out, Stiles just says, “Rules don’t apply when it’s apology snuggling,” and refuses to move. Peter’s not really inclined to make him.

He runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair, and revels in the fact he’s getting a second chance at this. “I didn’t cheat on her,” he says, because he needs Stiles to know. “It was the other way round.”

“I didn’t think it sounded right,” Stiles says, “but Jackson seemed so sure.”

“Jackson told you?” Peter gives Stiles an incredulous look. “You thought _Jackson_ was a reliable source of information?”

Stiles nods. ”I overheard him at the loft, talking with Lydia. And when I asked Derek, he told me the rumor.” At Peter’s frown he hastens to add, “Don't blame Derek. I kind of pushed him to tell me. And he even said I had nothing to worry about. I just - I overreacted. I wanted you so badly, and I was afraid I wouldn't get to have you.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you just ask _me_?”

Stiles goes quiet, ducks his head, gaze on where his fingers are trailing down Peter’s leg in a way that’s decidedly not proper. Finally, he glances up from under long lashes and admits,” Because I didn’t want it to be true. I wanted to pretend I’d never heard it. But then when you suggested we go inside, it all came rushing back and all I could think was that you were a serial despoiler.”

Peter sighs, and decides to settle this once and for all. “Sweetheart, I’ll let you in on a secret. I’ve never actually despoiled anyone.”

It takes a second, and then Stiles’s eyes widen. “What, never?”

“Never,” Peter says with a shrug. “It’s part of why Caroline left. She called me a prude.”

Stiles pulls away, but only so he can gesture up and down Peter’s body. “But, looking like that? _Never?_ ”

Peter smiles ruefully. “My wolf wouldn’t let me. It had rather strong opinions on unsuitable bedmates. And then I met you, and I haven’t looked at anyone else.”

Stiles fishmouths for a second, and then he starts to grin. “You waited. For me.”

“I waited. For you.” Peter has a feeling that Stiles is going to gloat about this for a long time, and he finds he doesn’t really mind, not if it makes his boy this happy, reassures him of Peter’s intentions.

Speaking of intentions.

Peter wastes no time, digging in the pocket of his jeans and pulling out the ring. “Marry me, sweetheart?”

Stiles’s face lights up, and he’s positively beaming as he slips the ring on his finger, where it belongs, has _always_ belonged. “Yes. Definitely yes.” He grabs Peter’s face between his hands and plants a kiss there, and his eyes dance with merriment, “but we’re having the world’s shortest engagement.” Then he clambers so he’s straddling Peter’s lap, and the kiss this time is slow, deep, and undeniably filthy. His voice is low and sultry as he murmurs in Peter’s ear, “And once we’re married? We’re gonna go on our honeymoon, and we’re gonna do _all_ the things - some of them twice.”

Peter sighs happily into the crook of Stiles’s neck. “Sounds perfect, sweetheart. I can‘t wait for you to despoil me.”

The smirk Stiles gives is absolutely wicked, and Peter looks forwards to seeing it for the rest of his life.

* * *

They forgo any and all pomp and ceremony, and get married three days later at the courthouse. They don’t have a reception, heading straight for their hotel, and once there, they don’t waste any time. 

They do all of the things. Some of them twice.

Afterwards, sated and sleepy, they curl up together, and as he savors the press of Stiles’s naked body against his own, Peter thinks to himself that this - _Stiles -_ was definitely worth the wait. _  
_

 _Told you,_ hums his wolf, insufferably smug.


End file.
